Pages

Follow by Email

Friday, 6 December 2013

Winter Sun

Whatever reason the alarm clock gives to wake me up,
it's wrong. It's unreasonable. It is told names that suit it but they are
mumbly, unintelligibly tired. No offence is given. Warm clothes, fried eggs and
coffee: they bring coherence to the murk.

The car is clear of ice: that is a better start: the old trick with a bed sheet
has unfixed the fastenings of a late night frost. Condensation, that is the
worst of it. The heater blares all the way.

A car park hard to find in the dark, barely marked, is, ne'ertheless, found.
Nothing stirs but us and the sound of crow-birds. Boy yomps on: bemissioned
(like bewitched only self inflicted.) I see his snow trousers catch first light
before he blends to furze and granite. I will have a shot more of coffee before
treading after, bitter hot and heavenly.

It is warm to walk, and undisciplined; all those paths that run off, fall in
streams, squash under grey stone bolus; littered by bone and dung; that no
sooner snuffled down want only to track up.

First light flares then pales out for the big reveal.

Boy is a bobble on a rock. Dog appears in various places, tail propelled, glorious.
Up the rock, laborious, toils me, and sits, although that creeps a chill; here
is the centre of the panorama, the burgeoning drama, the emergent pulse and
breath of day.

This is not all. Little Granddaughter stands in the garden centre, flanked by potted
trees. She spreads her arms and shouts 'Grow!'

It's a patch job to get her about today. I let her choose a tree: two foot of
branched gold tinsel it is then. I love that she dances when she sees my car.

Adventure, again, in one day. Tired, yes. Unwilling? No. Sat in the car and
keeping an eye out for tide. Boy, again, a bobble on a rock. 1,200 frames:
click, think, click. Learning how to see the world, how to keep eyes open.
Coffee in the pink flask warms. Mr drives up and we flock to the cliff top where
the wind blows wildest. It blows the wave spume over us like snow. The sun,
often described as sinking: it disappears, we remember it. The day span of a
winter sun, short, deep reaching.